Deciding to abandon the wandering of the mental maze, he went to talk to Gilgamesh. Though the fellow disclaimed any of the adventures attributed to the mythical king of Uruk, he liked to boast of his unrecorded exploits. His black eyes would twinkle, and he would smile when he told his wild tales-. He was like the American frontiersmen, like Mark Twain, he exaggerated to an incredible extent. He knew his listener knew he was lying, but he didn’t care. It was all in fun.
The days passed, and the air became colder. The mists hung more heavily, refusing to dissipate until about eleven in the morning. They stopped more frequently to smoke the fish they caught by trolling and to make more acorn bread. Despite the thin sunshine, the grass and the trees were as green as their southern counterparts.
Then the day came when they arrived at the end of the line. There were no more grailstones.
From the north, borne by the cold wind, came a faint rumbling.
They stood on the forward deck, listening to the ominous growling. The now ever-present twilight and the mists seemed to press upon them. Above the soaring black mountain walls the sky was bright, though not nearly as bright as in the southern climes.
Joe broke their silence.
“That noithe ith the firtht cataract ve’ll come to. It’th big ath hell, but it’th only a fart in a vindthtorm compared to the one that cometh from the cave. But ve got a long hard vay to go before ve get to that.”
They were robed and hooded in heavy clothes and looked like ghosts in the thin fog. Cold moisture collected on their faces and hands.
Burton gave orders, and the Post No Bills was tied to the base of the grailstone. They began unloading, finishing in an hour. After they had set all their grails on the stone, they waited for it to discharge. An hour passed, the stone erupted; the echoes were a long time stopping.
“Eat hearty,” Burton said. “This will be our last warm meal.”
“Maybe our last supper, too,” Aphra Behn said, but she laughed.
“Thith plathe lookth like purgatory,” Joe Miller said. “It ain’t tho bad. Vait until you get to hell.”
“I’ve been there and back many times,” Burton said.
They made a big fire of dried wood they’d been carrying in the boat and sat with their backs to the base of the stone while it warmed them. Joe Miller told some of his titanthrop jokes, mostly about the traveling trader and the bear hunter’s wife and two daughters. Nut related some of his Sufi tales, designed to teach people to think differently, but light and amusing. Burton told some stories from the Thousand and One Nights. Alice told some paradoxical tales which Dr. Dodgson had made up for her when she was eight years old. Then Blessed Croomes got them to singing hymns, but she became angry when Burton inserted slightly off-color lines.
All in all, it was fun, and they went to bed feeling cheerier. The booze also helped to raise their spirits.
When they arose, they ate breakfast over another fire. Then they loaded up with their heavy burdens and started off. Before the stone and the boat disappeared in the mists, Burton turned for a last look. There were his final links with the world he’d known, though not always loved, so long. Would he ever see a boat, a grailstone again? Would he soon never see anything?
He heard Joe’s lion-thunderish voice, and he turned away.
“Holy thmoke! Look at what I got to carry! I got three timeth ath much ath the retht of you. My name ain’t Thamthon, you know.”
Turpin laughed and said, “You’re a white nigger with a big nose.”
“I ain’t no nigger,” Joe said. “I’m a packhorthe, a beatht of burden.”
“Vhat’th the differenthe?” Turpin said, and he ran laughing as Joe swung a gigantic fist at him. The towering backpack unbalanced him, and he fell flat on his face.
Laughter rose up and bounced off the canyon walls.
“I’ll wager that’s the first time the mountains have made merry,” Burton said.
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